


Drowning in Shallow Waters

by Firestorm717



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Death, Crying, Depression, Established Relationship, Gen, Intrigue, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/pseuds/Firestorm717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a decade has passed since Valjean saved Javert from the Seine, and the two of them now live happily together as a couple, helping Marius and Cosette raise their children. However, when sudden illness takes Valjean's life, Javert finds himself once more derailed and struggling to cope with his grief. As he slowly picks up the pieces, a new case arrives at the precinct that threatens to expose his long-kept secrets to the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning in Shallow Waters

Two teacups stood like mismatched soldiers beside a steaming kettle, one filled with a clear, dark liquid, the other a thick and murky brown brew. Javert stirred the latter, his nose wrinkling at the bitter fumes. He scooped a dollop of honey into the mixture.

"Jean, the tea is ready. Come drink your medicine." Arranging the cups and kettle on a wooden tray, he carried them into the dining room, only to find it empty. "Jean!" Above him, a hoarse, wet cough echoed. Sighing, Javert mounted the stairs.

Through the entrance to their bedroom, a beam of pale sunlight crept across the floorboards and cast its chilly glow upon a white-haired figure in the corner, half hidden by the towering, spiral crown of a mahogany armoire. Valjean stood in front of the mirror on its door, adjusting his shirt cuffs. A saffron waistcoat patterned in taupe swirls hugged his broad shoulders, but tapered to a loose fit around his waist and hips, where belted black trousers hid the musculature lost to illness. His eyes were dreamy and distant, the wrinkles in their corners lifted as if on the wings of a fond memory.

"Sometimes, I think you want me to chain you to a chair for old time's sake," Javert said as he set the tray down with a clatter on the commode.

"Hm?" Valjean started from his reverie. "Oh, forgive me. I was... lost in thought." He blinked when he saw the tea tray. "You could have asked Toussaint to bring up my medicine."

"Nonsense. _I_ am taking care of you." Marching over to his lover, Javert shoved the teacup containing the cloudy liquid into Valjean's hand. "Here, drink. I put a spoon of honey in to sweeten the taste."

Valjean drained its contents slowly, grimacing. The bitterness clung like thick, sticky mud to the back of his throat long after the honey had faded. "Thank you," he murmured.

Javert pressed his hand to Valjean's forehead and frowned. "You are still sweltering with fever. We should stay home tonight. Tell Marius and Cosette that you are ill, and we shall join them in prayer from the refuge of our bedroom."

"It is Christmas Eve. We cannot skip Mass on the night of the birth of our Lord."

"The Lord cares not whether we sing His praises in Notre-Dame de Paris or a chalet. Given your devotion, I think He can forgive your absence at church this once."

"I do not wish to disappoint Cosette. I promised that I would play with the children afterward. Jeremie and Simon are growing up fast, and this will be the first year Florence can run around in the snow."

"You will do her no favors if you collapse from winter fever halfway through the Eucharist."

"It is not that serious."

"Yes, it is."

"I have but a lingering cough."

"The doctor seemed to think otherwise."

"I believe I am the better judge of my health."

"Then you believe wrong, Jean Valjean, for you are too stubborn to admit your own limits." Javert pivoted on his heel, jaw hard and spine straight as an ironing board. Only a quaver in his grip as he refilled the teacup gave away the unease beneath his martinet's guise.

Valjean was accustomed to picking up such chinks in his lover's armor. Sighing, he followed from behind and wrapped his arms gently around Javert's waist, resting his chin upon a rigid shoulder blade. "What is this truly about, Emile?" he murmured into the younger man's ear. "It is not only my ailment that worries you."

Javert bowed his head, hiding behind his curtain of graying hickory hair. Valjean knew. Valjean _always_ knew. Since that night at the Seine when the man pulled him out of the rapids, half drowned, and locked him in this very bedroom against all his menaces and swears, Valjean had developed a sixth sense for Javert's particular moods.

"It... I..." Javert's hand shook as he set the teacup down. He _knew_ that Jean Valjean was a better man than he, had recognized it when Valjean spared his life and refused his resignation to God. He'd made a religion of his devotion to the man's ideals. Where once he unquestioningly worshiped the law, now he placed Valjean above him as a priest does the altar of Christ - superior to him in every aspect. And Javert was, if nothing else, a humble servant to his superiors; he offered everything up to them: his flaws, his secrets, his soul. This confession of his mental state was only Valjean's right.

...At least, this was what he told himself to assuage the shame.

"My mind has not been well. It wanders down dark lanes." Javert flushed, muttering viciously to himself, "This is my own frailty, my weakness. I should not concern you with my foolish melancholies. You have more important matters to attend to than a spoiled schoolboy's moping."

Frowning, Valjean turned his lover around to face him. " _You_ are important to me. The sickness of the mind is no less deserving of care than the sickness of the body. Would you deny me medicine if you knew I was ill? Then do not ask me to treat your suffering any differently."

"It matters little. You cannot banish these thoughts." Javert shot him a tight smile, teeth bared like a wounded animal. "I have but only to endure until the madness passes."

"You need not endure alone. I am here for you. The Lord is here for you. Let us pray together, if nothing else."

Valjean clasped the younger man's hands in his own, his rough yet gentle laborer's fingers folding over Javert's iron grip. He bowed his head and coaxed his lover to do the same, their foreheads touching.

_The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want..._

Closing his eyes, Javert allowed himself to be carried up on Valjean's mellifluous voice, their surety and compassion lifting him from the flooded depths of his soul more than the psalm itself. It had been this way since the beginning. When the waters of sorrow threatened to overtake him, Valjean was at his side with a prayer and a steadying hand. When the waves of despair threatened to overwhelm him, Valjean knelt by his bed with a litany and a tender caress. Through it all, his lover never asked a single word of explanation. It was enough that Javert needed, and Valjean could give. More than anything, he was grateful for that unspoken mercy.

Upon the final amen, Javert raised his head, his face drawn, cerulean eyes wide and vulnerable like they never were with any other. With a swift movement, he bent and kissed the older man's hand as one would a saint.

"Better?" Tenderly, Valjean touched his lover's cheek.

Javert swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded. "I should be the one comforting you," he whispered, shamefaced. "I do not know how to do this. I do not know how to be this. I do not know where I'd turn if - "

"Shhh. You talk too much." Valjean pressed a finger gently to Javert's lips. "When the time comes, we will go into the Lord's embrace together, hand in hand, but that day is not yet upon us. Have faith with me on this. We still have many years ahead."

"Trust you to make grand promises you cannot hope to keep."

"Well then, Inspector Javert, you will just have to hold me to my word, won't you?" Valjean's mouth quirked, his hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. "I believe you are quite experienced in that."

A ghost of a smile crossed Javert's face. "You give me so much cause to when you are distracting me with stolen kisses."

"That sounds like an invitation to thievery."

In answer, Javert gripped his lover's curly hair and pulled Valjean's lips against his own. "Now, we are even."

"Not quite." Grinning, Valjean stole another kiss, light as the brush of a butterfly's wings, but Javert did not let his lover go so easily this time. He leaned in and sucked Valjean's lower lip between his teeth. The older man gasped, and in that brief exhale of breath, Javert thrust his tongue into Valjean's mouth, sliding along the inner cheek and teasing Valjean's tongue into a caress. His lover groaned, one rough hand clenching in the roots of Javert's long hair. Blunt nails dug into his scalp and lanced pleasure straight to his groin.

Javert panted when they broke for breath, his pupils blown. "A recidivist! You know what the sentence is for that."

"If I am condemned, then I might as well steal as many kisses as I can. Here, and here, and here." Valjean nibbled along Javert's chin and jaw, planting little wet blossoms in his wake. He kissed all the way back to the thick sideburns on Javert's right cheek. "Although... it is difficult with so much scruff in the way."

"I did trim them, you know." Though Javert realized it had been a few days, given his preoccupation with Valjean's health.

"Are you sure you got every last spot?"

"I am meticulous."

"Hmm, I think you missed this corner by your earlobe."

"Then come back here to my lips." Javert tried to catch his lover's mouth in a kiss again, but Valjean ducked playfully away.

"Let me shave your whiskers for you." Valjean's hazel eyes were bright as a mischievous child's; one might even say he bounced on his heels with glee. "Please?"

"Oh, sweet Christ."

"It will only take a minute."

"I am fully capable of grooming myself, Jean."

"Yes, but a second pair of hands is better. Besides, you want to look good for Cosette and the children, do you not?" Before Javert could reply, Valjean had already gone to retrieve the scuttle and shaving kit.

"You are worse than an eighty-year-old schoolmarm," Javert grumbled. Nevertheless, unable to seduce his lover back into a kiss, he followed Valjean to the coiffeuse by the window. Outside, snow enveloped the Rue Plumet gardens in a frigid cloak, weighing down the crown of the venerable oak tree and clinging to icicles on its ebony branches. The rows of rosemary bushes were but faint dunes beneath the winter frost. All was black or white, from the iron gates that enclosed their home to the slice of stygian sky at the horizon, as if color itself had drained from the world. Pressing his palm to the frozen windowpane, Javert shuddered. He was suddenly glad for the warmth of Valjean's presence beside him.

Valjean filled the scuttle with warm water from the kettle. Turning Javert to face him, he began lathering his lover's jaw and neck in sweetly scented soap, the strong, sure strokes of his calloused fingers drawing a sigh of pleasure from Javert's lips.

"How does that feel?"

"Mmm, good."

"Hold still then."

More caresses followed Javert's sideburns, and then a thumb dipped to the hollow of his throat.

"You are certain your grip is steadier than mine?" Javert murmured, voice soft and indistinct.

"Trust me. Your life is safe in my hands." A shiver traveled down Javert's spine and coiled in his belly. He held still as Valjean brought the razor to his neck. When the cool blade scraped across his skin, his eyelids fluttered closed. Though they'd spent countless nights together, Javert would always find this simple act more intimate than any of their lovemaking. The sharpness of the blade... the fragility of the vein that pulsed beneath its edge... life and death separated by only a hairsbreadth - it brought back memories of long ago. He could almost feel the rough noose around his neck and the _surin_ that slipped between, then parted not his skin, but the rope that bound him. Javert swallowed when he felt the razor skim right over his jugular. He had only bared his throat to one man in his life, and that man had saved his soul.

"There." Valjean took a step back.

Opening his eyes, Javert gazed into the mirror. His jaw was smooth and his whiskers trimmed to perfection, framing his face in a symmetrical pair. He ran his fingers over his skin to admire the feel. Crisp, clean, and kempt. "Very nice." Javert could almost imagine himself a youthful man, except... "I should cut my hair too. Have the barber cleave it off at the nape."

"What? No! Why would you do that?"

"It is grown too long and unwieldy." Javert tugged at a strand by his ear irritably. "The style is the province of a vain young dandy, not an officer of the law."

"I have seen many young policemen with a similar style. You might have even inspired them. Does not the Prefect himself wear his hair in a tail?"

"Monsieur Chabouillet hides his graying locks well," Javert muttered under his breath.

Valjean pretended not to hear his lover's words, although he couldn't help but smile. "Besides, I think it looks quite handsome long. These silvering strands," he combed his fingers from the dark brown roots to the gray tips, "remind me of snow on the grand horse-chestnut tree in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Very dignified and commanding." He tucked the lock of hair behind Javert's ear.

Though he would never admit it aloud, Javert's heart fluttered high as a starling at the compliment. Turning, he cupped his lover's cheek and pressed a kiss, soft and tender, to Valjean's lips. "Careful with your sweet words, Jean," he said wryly, "else I'll be forced to charge you with flattery."

"I happily surrender to any punishment you see fit, Inspector." Valjean shot him an impish grin, his cheeks dimpling.

Javert pushed his lover the few steps to their bed, straddling Valjean and undoing the first two buttons on the older man's waistcoat. "Punishment I can do." A sudden idea came to him, and he flashed a wolfish grin. "Let us make a wager. If I can bring you to climax before you can I, then you must take your medicine without a single complaint for the next week."

"And what if I win?"

"I will gladly kneel and worship in whichever way you desire."

Valjean closed his eyes and shuddered. "That is... blasphemy."

"I never said I was worshiping the cross. Not the one on our wall, anyway." Javert's lips parted to show his teeth, his voice low with amorous promise. He slid a hand down to cup Valjean through the other man's trousers.

Valjean groaned softly, his body beginning to stir with heat. He arched into the stroke of those strong fingers, twisting to one side so he could hook a leg around Javert's waist, pulling their groins flush together. Javert gasped as his burgeoning erection met Valjean's thigh, and his eyelids fluttered closed. Taking advantage of his lover's distraction, Valjean leaned up to mouth kisses along Javert's neck, just below the jawline, sucking at the tender flesh and coaxing a quiet whimper from Javert. He'd nearly reached his lover's ear when Toussaint's voice interrupted them from downstairs.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent, Monsieur Javert! The Pontmercy's are here!"

Javert heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Looks like your punishment will have to wait for later." Reluctantly, he extricated himself from Valjean's embrace. "Go, welcome them inside. I will join you shortly."

After Valjean left, Javert straightened his waistcoat and studied his reflection in the coiffeuse mirror once more. He ran his fingertips slowly across his scalp, retracing his lover's gentle caress. _Snow on the grand horse-chestnut tree_. Through the window, a beam of sun struck the mirror in a blaze, and for a fleeting moment, the Javert who stared back at him looked... youthful. A halo illuminated his head and softened the lines in his face, transmuting his dull pewter strands to gleaming silver in a dazzling alchemy of light. Could it be this was what Valjean saw? Javert did not know what to think, but that buoyant feeling returned to his chest like a balloon tethered to his heart. Smiling slightly, he picked up his hairbrush, a gift from his lover of dark, lacquered rosewood with a painting of a goldfinch on its handle, and began unraveling the tangles in his locks.

Once he'd smoothed out the last snarl, Javert sifted through the rainbow of silk ribbons in the vanity's drawer, bright reds and violets and soft, dusky blues, carefully curated from Parisian boutiques over the years. He selected a lush emerald green and knotted it in his hair. Coupled with his deep crimson waistcoat, brass buttons, and coal black jacket, it made for a festive Christmas garb - not that Javert was a vain man, of course. He merely prided himself on wearing the correct uniform for every occasion, as his mentor in the police force drilled into him long ago.

~o~

Downstairs in the living room, Cosette threw herself into Valjean's arms. "Papa! It is so good to see you." She pecked him on each cheek, quick as a hummingbird.

"My dearest Cosette, how I have missed your smile."

Cosette giggled. "Only a week has passed since we last dined together."

"Even that is too long to be separated from my beloved daughter." Valjean allowed himself to nuzzle Cosette's long, silky chestnut hair for a moment, breathing in the scent of her lavender perfume. He still could not believe how much she'd grown. Gone was the frail lark of the Thenardiers, or even the naive, lovestruck youth at Gorbeau House; in her place stood a woman of radiance and intelligence: shoulders straight, bearing confident, the delicate nose and porcelain chin belying an inner strength born from adversity, which only showed in the mischievous glint of her sky blue eyes. "Here, let me take your cloak." Valjean dusted the snow off its fur-lined hood before hanging it on the coat rack. "You must be freezing; come, sit by the fire. Ah, but where are the little ones hiding?"

"Jeremie, Simon, come give your grandpa a hug."

Two tousle-haired boys, no older than seven, scurried forth from the foyer. They wove around tables and chairs, climbing over the plush canape in their race to the fireplace. The shorter one with the bright caramel eyes got to Valjean first, bounding like a spaniel into his embrace.

"Grandpa!" Jeremie exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Valjean's neck. He planted a big kiss on one cheek.

The other boy, tall and thin, with a far more somber, owlish face, hugged Valjean tightly about the waist. "Grandpa, we missed you."

"Oh, my dear grandsons, how you've grown." Bending down, Valjean heaved Simon up with his other arm. "Oof. Has your mother been spoiling you with candies again?"

"Only over the holiday!"

"We miss your strawberry tarts. When are you going to make them again?"

"Soon as spring comes, I'll bake you a dozen." Valjean smiled and let the boys slip back to the floor. Jeremie immediately dashed for the kitchen, where his voice was lost in the clatter of pots and pans, while his elder brother curled up on the cushions by the fire. Turning to Cosette, Valjean asked, "What about the youngest one?"

"Florence is still shy, she just started walking a month ago. Come out dear, no need to hide." Cosette tugged at her skirts, but the little girl held fast, ducking behind the pale pink ruffles so all Valjean could see were her pointed toes.

Kneeling, Valjean peeked around Cosette's petite boot and caught a glimpse of two large, doe eyes in a cherubic face. They darted away just as quickly as he sighted them.

"You will have to ply her with sweets. Chocolate truffles, to be exact."

"Marius! You are looking well." Valjean got up just in time to catch the younger man in a hug. "Business has been going briskly, I see. I hope you did not bring a law book to dinner." He gestured at the tome tucked beneath Marius's arm. The boy of the barricades now stood before him a fine, upstanding lawyer, his once threadbare jacket replaced with a coat of handsome black velvet, although unlike Cosette, Marius looked much the same as the lad Valjean rescued over a decade ago. Freckles still dusted that youthful face, the dark hair short and trim, cheekbones high with hard-won pride. The only noticeable difference was an abortive attempt at a goatee, which left uneven salt-and-pepper scattered around Marius's jaw.

"Oh, this? No, it's for you! Hot off the presses." Marius held out the leather-bound book, tapping its gold-lettered cover. " _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ , new by Alexandre Dumas. You always did love your adventure stories, so I pulled some strings at the publishing house to get this for you early." As Valjean leafed through it, he continued, "But yes, business - business is excellent. Court cases arrive daily on my desk, especially during the holiday, and you must thank Javert for introducing me to the commissioner at the station; he's connected me with several important clients. I had to hire two new clerks to help with the paperwork, and we are expanding into a neighboring building this spring. The Pontmercy practice shall be the talk of Paris soon!"

"I am glad." Valjean smiled softly as he shut the book. "Just do not let work get in the way of time with your family."

"Cosette would never allow it, would you, darling?"

"Not unless you wish your dessert custard to be stuffed with hot chili and doused in vinegar," Cosette replied sweetly, her smile all sunshine and roses.

"Ah, that is my mischievous lark." Valjean's chuckle was interrupted by a soft tug on his trouser leg. Looking down, he saw Florence gazing at him from just below his knee. "Oh? Florence, what is it?"

"Piggyback ride!" she demanded, waving her chubby arms.

Laughing, Valjean hoisted her onto his shoulders as if she were a feather. Florence grasped two tufts of his curly hair and tugged on them like reigns, squealing with glee as Valjean galloped around the living room, across the hallway, through the dining room for a quick glance into the steaming kitchen (where he nearly bumped into a startled Toussaint), before circling back to Marius and Cosette, who clapped her hands with delight.

"Wheeee!! Do it again, grandpa!"

"Florence dear, let your grandpa take a rest," Cosette reproved.

"Noooo! Do it again, do it again, do it again!!"

Marius shook his head ruefully. "She will be the death of you," he shouted a warning, but Valjean had already taken off.

In the commotion, none of them noticed Jeremie sneak into the foyer. The lamps by the entrance had dimmed to a flicker, leaving only the candles on the Christmas tree to illuminate his steps. He tiptoed around a side table, keeping to the shadows until he reached the halo of light beneath the tree, where piles of gifts lay wrapped in shiny reds and greens and blues, a veritable cornucopia of toys straight out of _The Nutcracker and the Mouse King_. Jeremie drooled as he reached for the largest package...

"Hold on. We're not supposed to open presents until tomorrow." Jerking around, Jeremie came face to face with his brother.

Simon stood in front of the staircase, arms crossed, back straight as a pole, looking for all the world like the archangel Raguel in a cherub's body.

"I'm just taking a peek!" Jeremie hissed. "What's it to you?"

"You'll get in trouble, you will. Mama caught you red-handed last time."

"Only 'cause you tattled."

Simon jutted out his chin. "Rules are rules."

"That's right." A long, imposing shadow fell over the two boys, its owner booming from behind Simon, "Listen to your brother, Jeremie."

Jeremie's face turned white as a sheet. "U-Uncle Javert! I was just... uh..." His eyes darted around wildly. "Dusting the paintings!"

"No, you weren't."

Jeremie shot his brother a dirty look, then tried for a winning smile at Javert as he pushed the gift discreetly under the tree with his foot.

Javert heaved a sigh. "Run along back to your mother, and I'll overlook your infraction... this time." The ominous rumble in his voice, coupled with his deep, bushy eyebrows was enough to send the would-be thief scurrying. After Jeremie dashed off, Javert bent down and gave Simon a silent pat on the shoulder. The boy beamed before trotting back to join his mother, his head held high.

"Ah, Javert, I see you're still imparting the fear of the law into young children," Marius observed with an amused smile as he crossed into the foyer. He leaned one arm on the banister. "Have you ever considered a career in the convent? The nuns could use some lessons from you."

"I never gave it a thought. Criminals are far easier to deal with when they aren't also little rogues."

Marius chuckled. "You have the right of that. Come, enough hiding in the shadows." Turning, he waved at the living room, where the rest of the family gathered merrily around the hearth. "Even you must take a break from brooding on Christmas Eve."

As they entered the firelight, Cosette was the first to catch sight of them. "Javert! Oh, you look fine tonight." Standing on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on Javert's whiskered jaw. "Have you said hello to the children yet? Simon has been eager to see you all week. He adores the police hat and toy cudgel you gave him last Christmas. You should watch him march around; oh, he looks just like you!"

"Yes, I ran into him and his brother a moment ago." Javert's lips parted in a toothy grin, much like an old guard dog who still caught the occasional squirrel prowling about his master's house.

"Jeremie was trying to open the presents!" Simon piped up.

"Was not!" Jeremie shot back, sliding off the canape to confront his brother.

"Was too!"

"Mama, Simon's lying again."

"Now settle down you two, or neither of you will be unwrapping gifts on Christmas morning," Cosette said with a stern frown.

"That's not fair!" Simon tugged on Javert's shirttail. "Uncle Javert, tell Mama I did nothing wrong."

With his usual rectitude, Javert echoed, "Simon did nothing wrong." He paused. "But neither did I witness Jeremie open any presents."

While the correct response before a court of law, his words failed miserably in calming the children, for now both Simon and Jeremie glared at him in wounded betrayal.

"Jeremie was _trying_ to open them, I just stopped him before he crawled 'neath the tree."

"That's spec-ew-lay-shen. Papa, you told me that's not allowed."

"True, but only in a criminal case, and that's governed by legislation through, uh..." Seeing the daggers in his wife's eyes, Marius wisely decided to refrain from describing the fine details of French law. "You should ask your Uncle Javert. He has more experience than I."

"I'm a police inspector, not a judge," Javert said, exasperated. "Jean, if you do not get over here this instant, I will be forced to do something utterly undignified like hide in the kitchen from a little boy."

Laughing, Valjean crossed to his lover's side and threw an arm around Javert's shoulder. "Simon, stop badgering your brother, he already knows he's done wrong. Jeremie, no peeking beneath the Christmas tree. Those presents are not the only ones; you'll miss the big surprise I've hidden for you if you unwrap them early. Cosette, Marius, dinner is almost ready. Why don't you get the little ones seated? Toussaint will bring out the mashed potatoes and winter squash." Like magic, everyone abandoned their disagreements and moved with alacrity to follow Valjean's suggestions. "As for you, Emile..." Grinning from ear to ear, Valjean pulled his lover into a long, tender kiss. "You make a handsome damsel in distress," he murmured.

Javert grunted, fighting to maintain a furrowed brow, though he lost the battle with the wry smile that twitched at his mouth. "You are far too adept at this."

"I did serve as mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer for seven years, you know."

"Hmph. So I've heard."

"And a certain Inspector Javert gave me reason to practice my negotiation skills."

"Your charms did not fool me for long."

"No, they didn't." Valjean smiled sweetly. "Only you saw beneath the guise of Monsieur Madeleine and learned to love Jean Valjean as the man he truly is."

Javert could think of no brusque reply to that, so he linked his fingers with Valjean's and covered his lover's mouth with his own. "Come, let us eat."

~o~

The dining room was already set with a lavish feast. Plates of turnips, winter squash, and juicy ham sat beside bowls of succulent cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with thick, savory gravy, all arranged in a circle around the piece de resistance: a gigantic roast turkey stuffed full of herbs and spices, glistening bronze in the light of the two silver candlesticks, which stood like twin angels on either side. Its mouthwatering scent drew 'oohs' and 'aahs' from everyone at the table, and even Valjean, who normally took his time in prayer, said grace a mite quickly before carving into the bird. Only when he'd ensured all plates were full did he allow himself a bite of turkey, the briny sauce forcing a cough from his sore throat.

"Oh Papa, are you still ill?" Setting her spoon down, Cosette pressed the back of her long white hand to Valjean's forehead. "Your brow feels quite warm."

"It is nothing, my darling, just a minor chill. You suffered worse when you were a babe."

"You ought to take better care of your health. Toussaint, can you please fetch us some tea?"

"No, no, do not worry." Valjean waved the old woman away. "Emile has been looking after me. Perhaps a little too well, given I feel less like a patient than a prisoner on parole."

"Your father has been doing everything to avoid drinking his medicine."

Cosette wagged her finger. "Papa, you are very naughty. Remember when I was little and refused medicine for a cough? You mixed the syrup into my favorite pumpkin pie!" Leaning over, she tapped Valjean on the nose. "I will do the same to you if you do not listen to Javert."

"Alright, alright!" Valjean threw his head back and laughed. "I cannot resist both my loved ones, especially when they threaten my pie."

"I want pie!" Jeremie exclaimed. He reached for the mince pie, which lay tantalizingly close by his mother's arm.

"Not until you've finished your vegetables," Cosette said sternly, blocking his hand and forking more turnips onto Jeremie's plate.

Simon hid a smug glance at his brother as he dutifully cleaned his own plate and was rewarded with a slice of pie. As dinner progressed, the conversation around the table turned to the usual tidings: Marius's law practice, Cosette's education of the children, Valjean's gardening and volunteer work at the church. Javert kept silent for the most part, doling out a nod or a smile when a gaze landed on him, but otherwise simply enjoying the undercurrent of warmth and joy in their chattering voices. How unfamiliar it was to spend Christmas Eve with company! Even after thirteen years, Javert could not shake the feeling that he was but a specter in this happy portrait. From childhood, he had learned that holidays were not for him. There was no father to pat him on the back, no mother to hold him in her tender embrace, no gifts or praise from the dregs of the gutter. Christmas was just another cold, harsh winter day to grind through. Devoid of friends or family, Javert prayed alone in his apartment those nights as on any night, offering his devotion to his one companion: the law. And he would have continued that way if not for Valjean...

"What about you, Javert? How have things been at the precinct?" Marius prodded, pulling Javert out of his thoughts.

"Well enough."

"No new cases?"

"I heard there was another robbery at Rue St. Laurent last Saturday," Cosette said, her thin brows drawing together in a knot. "The thief broke into Monsieur Benoit's house and made off with his wife's prize pearls. Knocked out the maid, too! Poor woman." She shook her head. "If criminals are so bold as to attack the Benoit family, I fear for you and Papa living here all alone."

"You can rest assured that incident is being handled at the highest levels." Javert studiously avoided meeting Cosette's eyes.

"I'd feel safer if you could give us some news from the station-house. It is one thing to see policemen on patrol, another to know a member of our family is investigating the case."

Javert pursed his lips and said nothing, suddenly very fascinated by a splotch of gravy on the corner of his plate.

Seeing his lover's distress, Valjean gracefully changed the subject. "Cosette, how are the children's schooling? I'm told Jeremie and Simon are doing quite well."

Cosette brightened. "Oh, yes! Jeremie is excelling at French and grammar - he devours books like you, Papa - and Simon... well, Madame Chardin says she's never tutored a brighter pupil in mathematics. She expects both will make fine scholars if they continue to apply themselves."

While Jeremie basked in the praise, Simon frowned. "I don't wanna be a scholar, I wanna be a police inspector like Uncle Javert."

Laughing, Cosette ruffled his sandy hair. "We shall see," she said indulgently.

"They take after their mother. You were always such a clever child, Cosette, so keen of mind and eager to learn. I do not think I could have managed without your quick eye for numbers."

"Not without a few holes in your pocket. One of these days, I will get you to sit down and do your own ledgers."

"May that day never come," Valjean chuckled, sipping his glass of wine. "Speaking of which, the papers for my school - those are all in order? Can construction begin soon?"

"Your financial documents are signed and dated. As soon as the building is under your name, you can start hiring workers."

"Wonderful! Oh, this will be grand. A new school for the poor - a genuine place of learning, not a workhouse or a thinly disguised prison, but an academy to rival the best _lycees_ \- this will truly be something. With all the sickness and death Paris has suffered, it will be good to start the new year on a thread of hope."

Leaning over, Marius touched Valjean's arm and whispered in his ear, "About the building... I need to discuss some matters with you later."

Javert caught the remark from the corner of his eye, but kept his silence. Once everyone's bellies were full and the plates cleared, Valjean checked the clock above the mantelpiece.

"We still have another hour before we leave for Mass. What would you children like to do?"

Three reedy voices immediately shouted, "Story time!"

"Please read with Mama," Florence added, tugging on Cosette's sleeve.

"Alright, what book would you like?" Walking over to the bookcase by his writing desk, Valjean thumbed through the well-worn novels that lined its shelves. "I have _Robinson Crusoe_ , _Gulliver's Travels_ , or perhaps - "

"I want to hear about Scrooge," Jeremie interrupted.

The rest of the children quickly chimed in, "Yeah!"

Valjean laughed and pulled out the paperback, a purple ribbon sticking out from its binding. " _A Christmas Carol_ it is. Cosette, would you do the honors?" Together, they shoved two armchairs in front of the fireplace and settled down side by side. The children curled up on the canape, Simon seated straight on one end and Jeremie flopping down against the other arm; little Florence bounced on the center cushion, her heels tapping the plush blue velvet. Smiling, Marius cast around for a chair to join them when a voice startled him from behind.

"What is this new concern regarding Jean's school?"

Marius whirled. "You heard that?"

Javert's lips parted in a humorless grin. "Need I remind you that I was a police spy before you'd learned to walk?"

Marius opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it when he met Javert's penetrating gaze. He sighed. "There have been some difficulties acquiring the building. At first, I sought to have a representative make the purchase, but as the property lies on city-owned grounds, the law requires the final owner to sign the contract of sale."

"Did you speak with the inspector general at the _mairie_?"

"Yes, and I appealed to the district clerk as well. They were adamant. There are a few other avenues I can pursue, but... I will need to go over them with Valjean. It is likely given the review process for public works projects that he must sign as Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Javert shot the younger man a hard look in the eye, his next words flinty. "You must protect his identity at all costs, Marius. He will try to sacrifice his safety for the greater good, but do not allow it. Make whatever excuse you must. You owe him your life." For a second, his eyes flicked to the fireplace where Valjean was reading to Cosette and the children. "We both owe him our lives."

"Rest easy, Javert. I will not allow harm to come to him." Marius patted Javert reassuringly on the arm. He continued with a puff of pride, "Valjean may be stubborn, but I have argued the fine points of civil law before Paris's most ornery jurors." Javert snorted. "At worst, we abandon the building and donate the money to the church's trade school. Did you not suggest that to him? It would be far less dangerous than commissioning an institute of his own."

"I have made my opposition to this project abundantly clear from the start."

"It puzzles me why he would put himself at such great risk now, when he has always been satisfied with doling out alms and slipping coin anonymously into the offering box. Cosette tells me he was very careful to keep low while they were on the run from - well, before that incident at the barricades. I wonder what changed?" Marius rubbed his chin, musing aloud.

Javert recalled his countless arguments with Valjean, his anger and his broken pleas, all fruitless against his lover's calm, saintly resolve. _I want to leave something behind, Emile, a legacy beyond just a false name. Please, I know you mean well - but do not try to dissuade me._ "It is in his nature to place even the lowliest beggar above himself," he muttered.

"A noble sentiment. But come, let us discuss the details later." Marius gestured toward the living room. "Valjean and Cosette are still playing with the children, and I have a fresh bottle of cognac waiting for us on the credenza. Won't you join me for a drink?"

The two men gathered around the burnished walnut cupboard, its surface decorated with marquetry of spiraling vines. Marius pulled two wineglasses from the display cabinet, pouring the dark, caramel liquid from the bottle with an elegant flourish. He handed a glass to Javert and took a long sip from his own, eyelids fluttering at the buttery taste.

"Ahhh... a true vintage cognac. Spicy and aromatic, but not too sweet. It pays to have a _maitre de chai_ as a client." Marius chuckled softly. "Can you imagine us sharing a bottle like this ten years ago? You with your irreproachable, stone-faced facade, chasing the beggars on the streets, and me still hiding from my grandfather in that dilapidated Gorbeau tenement. Those were interesting days."

"Thirteen years. It's been thirteen years, five months."

Slowly, Marius swirled his glass, staring at the amber beads that dewed on its rim, his eyes faraway. "The first time I tasted a quality brandy, Grantaire sneaked two bottles into the cafe on Rue de la Chanvrerie after exams. They were stolen most likely, or sweet-talked from a shopkeeper. Certainly, he couldn't have afforded them on his salary. Courfeyac was hosting a party for us students - Jehan, Joly, Combeferre - to celebrate the summer break, but as usual, Enjolras turned it into a republican rally." He slapped the credenza and laughed. "We all got drunk on dreams of glory and Grantaire's brandy - I swear, he must have spiked it, for that _eau de vie_ was far stronger than any I've encountered - and the meeting soon descended into a raucous romp. Bets were placed, money lost, Enjolras mounted his soapbox at least twice more, giving long, passionate, and completely inarticulate speeches until finally, Grantaire tired of his rambling and kicked him off. Literally. Combeferre and I had to pull them apart before it came to fisticuffs." Marius halted suddenly, a stab of pain pinching his face. "If they were to see us now..."

Javert's mouth pressed together in a hard line. "Your friends forced the National Guard's hand."

"Our protest at Lamarque's funeral was peaceful. It was they who fired the first shots."

"I was there. I witnessed you lot raising your pistols. Your friends collected muskets, bullets, weapons for months. Do not tell me you weren't planning for violence."

"Only to protect ourselves from your Guardsmen! Enjolras never intended a bloodbath, he made sure innocents went unharmed and showed mercy to all who defected to our cause!"

"Yes, I remember his mercy quite well," Javert shot back with a caustic sneer.

Marius started to retort, but then bit his tongue for the sake of peace. He heaved a sigh and said quietly, "You must realize I protested your execution. When I learned it was you, I tried to reach Enjolras on the barricades, but then I heard the gunshot and thought it too late. If only Valjean had - " Stopping, he shook his head angrily. "But that is all in the past. I do not blame you for their deaths. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jehan... even Grantaire... they knew what awaited them in the end, and they chose to martyr themselves regardless. Like you, they gave their lives for what they thought was right."

 _What they thought was right._ As if that excused their violent rebellion. Javert refused to believe that he and the radicals were anything alike. And yet... Valjean's voice murmured reproachfully in his head. _Did you not think yourself in the right too when you condemned Fantine? When you placed blind obedience to the law above God's grace? Once, you told me there is nothing on Earth that we share, and now look at us, Emile_. Javert gazed across the room, his pupils large and expression stormy. Valjean had just pulled a comical face, causing Simon and Jeremie to roll around on the cushions, shaking with laughter. A memory stirred inside him: dirt-smudged cheeks, an insolent grin, a small, lifeless body dumped on blood-soaked stone. Unconsciously, he touched his breast where once he wore a Chevalier's insignia with pride. "The little boy did not need to die," Javert whispered almost inaudibly into his glass. "That was a mistake."

Marius studied the older man's face, the once unassailable granite now marred with cracks of age, hard angles worn down by time's inexorable waves. Pity welled. "You know, we may never agree on politics, Javert, but I have the utmost respect for you. You are forthright and honest, loyal above all; you have only ever done your duty, no matter the cost to yourself. These last few years, you've been the dearest of friends to Valjean, Cosette, and myself, and a beloved uncle to our children." Tentatively, he placed a hand on Javert's shoulder. "Whatever happened in our past, I want you to know that you are part of this family."

Javert's eyes lingered on the figures in front of the fire, their voices full of affection and cheer. Valjean's family. His family. Squaring his shoulders, he downed his drink in a single gulp. "I must bring Jean his medicine."

Valjean had just finished reading the introduction to Mr. Fezziwig's ball when a steaming teacup was thrust under his nose. Looking up, he met his lover's tumultuous eyes. "Thank you."

"Uncle Javert, won't you please read to us?" Simon asked with a hopeful smile.

"Yeah!" his brother chimed in. "Read to us from _A Christmas Carol_."

"I thought your mother and grandfather were doing that already."

"They miss listening to you, Javert," Cosette said gently. "Remember when Florence was just a babe, you'd read to her from the book of fairytales at night? The boys joined you from the hallway, and together, you'd act out the voices of all the forest animals. They learned their letters from that."

"A pity I could not accompany you at the time. Cosette tells me you were a wonderful teacher." Valjean gave his lover an encouraging nudge.

Fond memories swirled in the back of Javert's mind, sending tendrils of warmth into his breast like a sapling taking root. He sighed, not unkindly. "Very well. What part do you want me to read?"

All three children instantly yelled, "Scrooge!"

"Oh, for the love of - "

"It's M'sieur Scroooooge," Florence sang as she clapped her hands.

"Absolutely not. I will read any part except that."

"But you are so good at it. No one can capture the spirit of Scrooge as you do when you scowl." Catching Javert about the waist, Valjean gave his lover a playful poke in the belly. "Besides, Cosette already has the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I am reading Mr. Fezziwig, so he is the only character we are missing in this chapter."

Javert folded his arms, shrugging off Valjean's grip and backing up toward the fireplace. "You are always casting me as the crotchety old man," he huffed.

"It suits your voice. You get the snarls just right."

"I do not snarl."

"Snap, then."

"I do not do that either."

"Really? I thought I heard a growl a moment ago."

"You mistake my tone of command for surliness."

"It is so difficult to tell the two apart when you are _bark_ ing orders."

"Now you are just describing a dog, Jean."

Meanwhile, a thin wreath of smoke began to rise from Javert's coattails, which had edged dangerously close to the fire. Simon discreetly scuffed them out of the path of the flames, while the other two children hid giggles behind their hands.

"Can you read 'The Tinderbox' then?" Jeremie piped up. "There's three dogs in it! Though... I don't think they talk."

"No, I want to hear _A Christmas Carol_ ," Simon pouted.

"Alright children, no more bickering. _I_ will read the part of Scrooge." Walking over from the credenza, Marius plucked the tome from Valjean's hands and flipped to a random page. He narrowed his eyes, glared around the circle, and grunted in an exaggerated voice, "Are there no prisons? And the Union workhouses, are they still in operation?"

"That's not how you do it, Papa. You have to frown more," Simon protested.

Marius drew his lips down into a jester's grimace. "I don't make merry at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry."

"No, no, you need to say it louder." This time, Jeremie was the one to complain.

"Bah, humbug!!"

"Not! Scrooge!" Florence howled, pounding the cushion with her tiny fists.

"Oh, give me the book already, Marius. You are not fooling anyone with that faux voice." Marius laughed as Javert snatched the book back amid the children's cheers. He shot a wink at Valjean before departing for another glass of cognac.

~o~

Soon, the hour chimed and Toussaint poked her head in to inform them that the carriage was waiting. Cosette herded the children into the foyer, where she bundled them one by one into thick coats, hats, and mittens. Retrieving his own greatcoat from the closet, Javert was about to join them when he caught sight of Marius and Valjean hunched over the writing desk, arguing in hushed tones.

"This is not a small town like Montreuil-sur-Mer." Marius sighed, exasperated. "You cannot obtain a deed to public property as an anonymous donor."

"What if I go through the council? Let them represent me as a buyer."

"You can try, but then the building won't be under your name. You will have little say in its management, and I know you want this to be a school that genuinely serves the poor."

Valjean fell silent, chewing on his thumbnail as he weighed the risk to self against God's grace. "So you are saying I must sign regardless. As Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Marius spread his palms helplessly. "The only other choice is to spread money around the _mairie_ and see who among the officials is most prone to, ah, misplacing documents."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Javert cut in sharply. "Hand over the contract. I will sign it."

"Emile, no - "

"We have discussed this before. The review process is strict for public property in Paris." Without waiting for an answer, Javert snatched the parchment from Marius's hand. He tapped a crimson fleur-de-lis seal on one corner. "When I served as police investigator for this division, I arrested would-be forgers and fraudsters every week. You are risking exposure if you submit this piece of paper with an assumed name."

"You are taking a risk too by associating with me," Valjean protested.

"And Marius, and Cosette, and everyone who knows you as Jean Valjean. The difference is that you and I share an account when it comes to money matters, so there can be no question if I make the purchase."

"He has the right of it." Marius folded his arms, nodding at Javert. "Legally, all of your finances are above board. Cosette has kept meticulous records of payments made by Monsieur Fauchelevent to Monsieur Javert for room and board over the years. Any transfers in the other direction were wages for your gardening services, Valjean. If Javert acquires the property, it will be with coin that is his and his alone."

"Even so, a large building like a school..." Valjean bit his lip. "It will look suspicious."

A wry glint of humor sparked in Javert's pale eyes. "Coming from me, you mean - because Javert is not one for grand charitable gestures. Do not worry," he said with a thin smile, "my colleagues at the precinct are already convinced I've grown quite soft. One cannot give alms every Sunday and feed starving _gamin_ without some impact on one's reputation. What is a school for the poor on top of that?" He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the contract, the hard, bold spine of the 'J' slashing like a dagger through the parchment, and shoved it back into Marius's hand. "There, file that at the _mairie_. If the secretary has any questions, tell him to contact me directly." Javert placed his hat resolutely on his head and walked out the door.

Outside, snow pirouetted down from the clear night sky, obscuring the street lamps and alighting on the muzzles of the big black horses, which shifted restlessly in front of their carriage. Javert inhaled deeply the fresh, sharp winter air. A lightness bubbled up in his chest; color returned to the world. It was as if a blindfold had been lifted, so the emerald pines and delicate pink hellebores stood out like sunbursts against the cobblestone path, joyous and bright.

"Emile!" Valjean called, buttoning his long green greatcoat as he hurried to catch up with his lover.

"I will not change my mind, Jean."

"No, I only wanted to thank you." Valjean halted by Javert's side, one hand on the carriage handle. "You and I... we've disagreed on this project from the beginning. I realize you still think it a foolish risk, but trust me when I say that what you did just now - it will help many people better their lives."

"Someone has to protect you from your own blundering attempts at charity," Javert said gruffly. Seeing Valjean's shirtsleeve slip, he pulled the cuff back up sharply and fastened its button over the deep red scars that marred the older man's wrist.

"I know." Valjean stroked his lover's cheek in silent gratitude. "Nevertheless, you did a good deed, and that deserves thanks."

"Ten years with you has turned me into a self-sacrificing fool."

Valjean belted out a hearty laugh. "Just you wait another decade, I'll have you canonized as a saint!"

Javert was silent as they climbed into the carriage. He knew that if anyone deserved that honor, it was Jean Valjean.

**Author's Note:**

> Before you ask: yes, there is a happy ending, and no, Javert does _not_ die. So don't worry :) character death only refers to Valjean. Written from a plot bunny by [autumngracy](http://autumngracy.tumblr.com/post/137591839450/javert-getting-extremely-depressed-and-becoming/): how would Javert cope if Valjean passed away after years together as a loving couple? I added my own spin with Javert's history of depression and suicide attempts. The first name I gave Javert, Emile, comes from a 1935 film adaptation of Les Miserables.


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